Heaven Can't Help Me Now
by chalantness
Summary: There's a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips, but her expression is serious, genuine. Dangerous. (He's always loved a little danger.)


**Title:** _Heaven Can't Help Me Now  
_ **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** ~4,300  
 **Characters:** Steve/Natasha  
 **Summary:** There's a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips, but her expression is serious, genuine. _Dangerous_. (He's always loved a little danger.)

 **A/N:** Not beta'd, because when do I ever do that? I knew that I'd started writing this a while ago with a prompt in mind, but I lost those prompts, so it evolved into this.

 **Heaven Can't Help Me Now**

London is cold, and rainy, and _wet_ , and trying to maneuver through the crowds of people under these conditions is a nightmare.

Being an agent isn't really his thing. Well, he's getting better at it – a lot better – and Nick makes a point to tell Steve this in his own vague sense of a compliment. Steve appreciates the sentiment, even if he's still not sure if he can totally trust the man. (Steve knows that he _can_ , but he also knows that there's a lot that Nick doesn't tell him, and he has to remind himself that he's playing a game of agents, not a game of soldiers. Intel is handled very differently.) Natasha tells him that Nick doesn't really care how many supervising officers they have to have Steve train with. He's just glad that Steve finally accepted the offer to join SHIELD after trying to keep away from it – and the rest of the world – for so long after the ice.

Steve blames New York. All of that fighting, and being part of a team, being part of a bigger picture – it's what he's always done, what he's always wanted, and dealing with Loki had gotten him hooked all over again. He lasted two weeks after returning to his shell of a civilian life before he caved.

So, yeah. He's dusted off his combat moves from the army and has a hell of a lot more under his belt thanks to training, and things are _better_. He's doing better.

Except for right now, because he's _drenched_ with rainwater and his feet are freezing. And he hasn't heard from Natasha in at least twenty minutes.

It makes him assume the worst, even though it really shouldn't since he knows how Natasha works. She twists the world around her fingertips, bends the rules and gets herself free from the most impossible of circumstances, and it's kind of fascinating. There's nothing about her that doesn't impress Steve. She's damn good at what she does.

He's still allowed to worry, though. She's his teammate and his friend, probably the closest friend he has right now, and even then that's not saying all that much, because there's still so much about her he doesn't know. But, he thinks, maybe that's fine. It doesn't bother him like it probably should. Because, for all that he doesn't know about Natasha, it never really feels like he's missing anything about her. Being around Natasha is kind of the most natural part of his world right now, like she was always meant to be in his life, and it's comfortable.

Half an hour after they were separated and still no response, and he's seconds away from going after her. He has to find her. He's not leaving this train without her.

He leaves their compartment, listens to the automatic lock click into place behind him, and heads down the train car. He's dripping water everywhere, clothes heavy and clinging to his skin, but every other person got caught in the rain before boarding, so he doesn't look a bit out of place.

He's about to exit the second car he searches when something grasps his elbow, tugging him back, and then a door slides closed and he's staring into the dark.

Fingers press over his lips before he can make a noise of surprise, and he squints, eyes adjusting to the moonlight coming in through the window viewing the outside of the train. Natasha is staring up at him, wet hair clinging to the sides of her face, and his body relaxes. Not entirely so, because there's still a reason as to why they're hiding, to why she's been hiding out in here, but at least he has his eyes on her. She's alive and he can see it for himself. He nods once and she pulls her fingers away, licking her lips as she closes her eyes.

"We need to get off at the next city," she tells him. She sounds annoyed by the change in plans. "I'm pretty sure the big fella with the one eye started getting suspicious. Guess my German accent needs a bit of brushing up."

She makes a face, and despite the situation, he has the urge to laugh.

 _So that's what's pissing her off_. "Guess that answers my question—you're _not_ good at everything."

She punches his chest. His lips curve into a smirk.

The train jolts a little and he sort of stumbles forward, bracing his hand on a shelf near Natasha's head before he can hit into her. This must be a linens closet of some sort – his fingertips graze something soft and cotton, and the small space smells of laundry detergent – which makes sense, since they're in one of the sleeping cars.

It's small, though, even for a closet. Natasha fidgets, shifting to get more comfortable, and he tenses.

"We'll need to retrieve the equipment from the room," he says after a moment. His voice sounds low even to his own ears.

She hums in disagreement, leaning away from the shelves and further into his space. "We'll risk getting caught. They can only be activated by one of our chips, anyway. It'll be okay to sit until someone can come back and get it." Then she makes this noise of discomfort and presses herself closer. He grits his teeth. " _God_ , this thing is digging into my shoulders."

"You alright?" he asks.

" _No_ ," she says flatly. He tries to chuckle, because he knows she's just joking. (Well, _her_ form of joking.) If she were in any real pain, she wouldn't bring it up at all.

"I don't know how long until the next stop," he points out. There needs to be an objective here. He needs to focus. "We might be in here a while. We need to get comfortable."

"I don't think _comfortable_ can be achieved when you're cold and wet and trapped inside a broom closet," she mumbles.

He closes his eyes, blows out a breath in an attempt to ground himself. But Natasha keeps _fidgeting_ , brushing against him, and a warmth slides down his spine and to his core, coiling tighter with every movement. Then she makes another little noise and his control all but dissolves. He grasps onto her wrists and she actually startles, head snapping to look at him.

" _Stop_ ," he breathes, practically pleads, and if not for the situation, he would've paid more attention to the touch of confusion in her eyes as she blinks her long lashes at him.

(In the back of his mind, he thinks about how few people have probably ever seen this expression on her. Part of him feels a little proud that he's one of them.)

"Oh," is all she says after a moment.

He takes a breath, grip loosening on her wrists, but she doesn't slip herself out of his hold. She parts her lips a little but doesn't say anything else, just holds his stare as she stands completely still. He's not sure if it makes any difference, to be honest. Not for the first time, he feels like she's looking into his eyes and trying to read him, and he feels entirely too transparent. He leans back against the wall, creating as much space between them as possible in such close quarters as he turns to focus on the blur of scenery through the glass.

"Better?" she asks after a long pause. Her tone is light but not teasing, and he appreciates that.

"Not really," he admits. Even with the separation, the air smells a little too much like her now – like lilacs and gunpowder and rainwater – and it isn't helping things.

"Need help?"

Her voice is gentle, quiet, so much so that he almost doesn't catch the question, even though she's only inches away from him. He hesitates, gaze lingering on the countryside for a moment longer before he turns to her once more. There's a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips, but her expression is serious, genuine.

 _Dangerous_ , he tells himself. This is definitely dangerous.

(He's always loved a little danger.)

He parts his lips, throat feeling a little drier than before, and leans off of the wall. He watches her take a breath, surprise touching her expression again as she stares into his eyes, gaze so intense it makes him wonder what she might be seeing there. Then she blinks once, twice, and he decides that the way her eyelashes flutter may be his undoing.

And then a sharp chime sounds in his ear, low but still startling, and she flinches at the same time he does. He'd forgotten about the earpieces. The connection's been down a while.

"Romanoff?" Maria's voice asks over the line.

There's a moment of hesitation as Natasha just stares at him, and he stares back, and neither one of them moves. Then, slowly, maybe almost reluctantly, Natasha touches her fingertips over her ear. "We read you, Hill," she says, finally looking away. He swallows, hard, and exhales as he turns to gaze out the window again.

He hates the cold.

... ...

His hand slides down her back, settling at the base of her spine, and she hums lowly. She's rubbed off on him, she knows. Or maybe (the more likely) he's finally found someone that shared the high he got off of adrenaline, the buzz in their blood at the declaration of another mission accomplished, and she just gets him to cave into acting upon it. It only took four years of working together, of getting to know each other, to crack through the ice that'd frozen around his heart. He'd been every bit as guarded and wary as she'd been, and she took pleasure – a little too much of it, he'd argue, and maybe she's inclined to agree – in pushing and pushing under his skin until he finally let her in. He's a terribly stubborn man, after all.

But she's a stubborn, competitive woman, and she sure as hell _loves it_ when she wins.

"Easy there," she says, low enough for only him to hear. Every other passenger in the dining car would look at them and assume that Steve is just being a gentleman, his hand on her so he can sweep her through the train, guiding her back to their room.

She knows better, though. Of course she does. Steve is the one thing she thinks she knows best of all, and his hand on her in this moment is more for his sake than it is for hers. He touches her to ground himself in the moment, and away from the very real temptation he has to just push her up against one of the tables and take her right then and there.

(He'd whispered it into her ear, but she'd know that that's what he'd been thinking, even if he'd said nothing at all. And he'd know that she was thinking the same thing.)

The last time the two of them had been on a train had been entirely different: a rainy travel through the countryside in London with an unexpected complication and too much space between them in the small linens closet. And now? Their target had been apprehended discreetly at their last stop, hauled away without so much as a glance from the passengers as they went about themselves, and Natasha returned to where Steve waited for her at their table in the dining car, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He's always loved her Russian accent.

They'll finish the train ride to the end, because they need to meet up with Nick on the other side. But that won't be until the morning.

 _Thank god_.

Steve backs her into the closest wall as soon as the door to their room clicks locked behind them, presses himself against her as he takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard. The wall bites into her back with the force of it, but she hardly notices.

He presses his hips against hers, pulls away just enough to break the kiss. He licks his lips and the tip of his tongue grazes against hers, that's how close they still are.

"You were so amazing out there," he tells her, voice low. See, she doesn't need praise, at all. She knows she's damn good at what she does.

That doesn't mean she doesn't love hearing it, especially from Steve, who is always so eager to give it up after an assignment. He's always, ever since Day One, quick to acknowledge her skill in the field, and he let her know how much he appreciated her partnership, admired her talent. She wonders how long it took for that admiration to turn to arousal.

(Through the haze in her mind, she thinks back to that night in the London countryside, the look in his eyes in that linens closet. Maybe that's her answer.)

"Yeah?" she asks, batting her eyelashes, watching his eyes darken. It gets him every single time.

" _So_ amazing, baby," he breathes, and her laugh barely has a chance to bubble out of her – pet names are kind of his thing when he's turned on – before he has his lips on hers again.

She reaches between them to work the buttons of his shirt undone, but then he snatches her wrists in one hand and pushes at her hip with his other, spinning her around before she can fully register it. He tugs her jacket off of her shoulders and she lets the sleeves fall from her arm. She should probably care a little bit more about her $90 faux leather jacket being left on the floor, but then Steve's hands are on her again, reaching around to flatten over the bared skin of her stomach between her skinny jeans and her bustier, and she finds it too hard to care about anything other than _him_ right now. He presses her back against his chest, his other hand running up her arm as he dips his head to kiss her neck. She whimpers.

He grasps her chin with his fingers, tilting her head back, and she reaches up to push her fingers into his hair as he kisses her again.

It's softer this time, slower, not as desperate. It's dizzying, how quickly he can change pace, how easily he commands the moment, and she loves every second of it. He sucks her lower lip between his, takes his time as he kisses her, like he hadn't just pushed her through the train and into the room out of impatience to have her that very second.

They have time, which almost never happens. No doubt that he intends to savor every second of it.

His hands slide down her front, slow, agonizing, grasping the zipper of her bustier and tugging it down until her shirt falls open, straps sliding off of her shoulders.

His fingertips skim the underside of her breast before taking it in his hand, swallowing her gasp. His thumb passing over her nipple and making her back curl, and he kisses her harder as his other hand slides up her stomach. She squirms, closes her thighs together as her warmth coils and coils under the press and pull of his fingertips on both of her breasts.

Her lungs burn for the air she can't seem to get between kisses, and, as if he can tell (he can always tell) he parts their lips, letting her draw air.

"Steve," she says, eyelashes fluttering open to look up at him. He licks his lips. " _Steve_ ," she breathes, and she wants to kiss that stupid grin off of his face, but he moves before she can, turning her by her hips again and backing her onto the bed in seconds.

"As you wish," he says into her ear. She shivers.

He gets the straps of her heels undone and tugs them off, then grasps the front of her jeans, popping them open. She lifts her hips up a little so he can tug them down, tossing them onto the floor, and then he presses a palm against the inside of her thighs, pushing her legs open. She'd gotten most of the buttons of his shirt undone already, so he's quick to shrug out of it and then pull his undershirt off and over his head. She sits up, grasps his jeans and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his abs as she works his belt undone and tugs it out.

" _Natasha_ ," he groans, and a laugh bubbles out of her as he pushes down by her shoulders, pressing her flat against the bed again. "My turn."

"To what?" she asks needlessly, eyebrow arching.

He smirks – _god_ , this man is so _ridiculously_ sexy – and kisses her pulse. "To show you how amazing I can be."

She _laughs_ , and then he reaches between them, moving over the wet material of her panties, and her breath stutters, dissolving into a moan. He presses a little harder, circles his thumb, and her hips jump as she grasps onto his arms and digs her nails into his biceps.

His shoulders a broad, crowding her space, trapping her against the bed, and she loves it – loves how safe it feels, how much of him is surrounding her.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband of her panties and tugs them down, goose bumps trailing along her skin at the sudden cold as he all but rips it off of her legs, tossing it to the floor with the rest of their clothes. He trails wet kisses down her front, nipping her skin, coaxing these little mewls, and she grips the material of the sheets between her fingers.

He licks through her folds without warning and she gasps sharply, neck arching as she presses her head back. "I love this part," he says, his breath warm against her center as one of his hands settles over her thigh, squeezing just above the bend of her knee. His other hand settles over her hip, thumb digging just barely over her hipbone and making her squirm as her breaths grow heavier and heavier. He sucks just barely over her clit, pressing her legs apart when she tries to close them. "You look so beautiful like this," he tells her, lips grazing over her in these feather-light brushes as he speaks, "high off of a mission accomplished, soaked through with adrenaline. I should be jealous. You're never like this because of me."

He sucks at her heat, making her gasp and whimper, trying to swallow her pleasure. If she screams like she does when they're at him, it'd startle everyone.

"Steve," she stutters out, grasping his hair, tugging as she tosses her head to the side at a particularly delicious flick of his tongue. " _Steve_ , Steve," she breathes, and it takes all of her willpower to tug him away, but this is important. He meets her eyes. "This is _all_ because of you."

He smiles a little – _smiles_ , not smirks, but it's still ridiculously sexy – but doesn't say anything, just tilts his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh as he passes his fingers through her folds. Her body shudders, back arching and legs tightening around his shoulders as he wets his fingers with her arousal, passing over her bundle of nerves.

Then he presses two fingers into her as he flattens his tongue, and then groans at the taste, sending vibrations through her core.

He presses and pulls, sucks down as he swirls over her clit, and her body flushes, thighs hooking over her shoulders and heels digging into his back as she tugs at his hair.

She's close, _so_ _close_ , and it should be embarrassing how quick it took, but Steve knows her. Knows every one of her tells, her little sounds, so that he can zero in on the right spot and the right pressure. And he's right. There's just something about the adrenaline of a mission accomplished that winds her up so incredibly tight, especially when he's right there next to her, doling out praise as easily as he does commands. The shift of her hips and the pull on his hair tells him that she's close, a throaty moan tells him that he's hitting the right spots.

She's afraid – terrified, really – that he's going to drag it out longer, change his pace to dangle her on the edge, but he doesn't this time, and she presses her face further into the mattress, ignoring the strain in her neck as she comes undone.

" _God_ ," she whimpers. He sucks over her nerves and her hips jump, another whimper falling from her lips. "Oh, _god_."

"I know, baby," he murmurs into her folds, licking a stripe up the center. "I've got you. Keep going," he breathes, angling his wrist into a particularly _good thrust_. "I've got you."

She's so, so close to her second high, and then he pulls his mouth off of her, and she makes this pathetic little sound, stars dancing behind her eyelids. He moves from the bed for a moment, and there's the muted sound of his jeans behind dropped to the floor, and then he lowers himself over her again. She blinks her eyes open and sets her hands on his face, lips tugging into a smile as he settles into her space. She brushes a thumb over the apple of his cheek, down his jawline, and breathes a sigh. _God_ , this man is too much sometimes.

"Hey," he says, pressing his forehead to hers. He slides his length through her wetness and she arches, legs tightening around his hips. "You alright?"

She feels herself smile, eyes closing as she hooks a hand behind his neck. " _Amazing_ ," she whispers.

He chuckles lowly and then sinks into her, a low groan rumbling in his throat as he settles. No matter how many times they've done this, he always takes this moment after the first thrust, like he needs to gather himself so he doesn't fall apart in seconds. Like it's as overwhelming for him as it is for her.

He rolls his hips back and her legs shake, her mouth opening in a silent moan as she feels him withdraw slowly, and then he hooks an arm between the small of her back and the mattress as pushes back in just as slowly. He keeps his pace this slow at first, savoring the feel of her with every deep, thorough thrust, and her blood hums. She's still buzzing, too sensitive from her first orgasm and too wound from him living her on the brink of a second, that these slow thrusts are making her crumble just as easily. She swallows a whimper.

Then he angles his hips, finding her sweet spot with ease, and there's nothing she can do to muffle her cry of pleasure, her pleads for _more_.

"Thank you," he mumbles against her lips. "Thank you for this."

"What," she stutters, swallowing hard at another brush against her spot, "what are you talking about?"

"For this, Natasha." She whimpers. It's stupid, entirely irrational, how much she loves how her name sounds from his lips. "For letting me see this part of you. For letting me in."

He kisses the underside of her jaw, nipping at the skin, and she grasps onto his arm with her free hand. "You let me in, too," she breathes, gasping at a deep angle.

"Yeah, I did." His voice sounds lower now, rougher as his own desire tightening at his core. "You didn't let me get away. You didn't let me hide." He skims his lips up again to press a kiss to her mouth. It's sweet, ironically gentle considering he's drawing her closer and closer to a second orgasm, sounding not too far from his own. She whimpers, legs tightening even harder around his hips. Oh, _oh god_ , she's close. So, so close—and it's cruel, the way his hips slow, and she's about to snap at him when she realizes this is for his own sake, too.

" _Steve_ ," she whimpers. She feels tears welling in her eyes and… she doesn't know what to with this, all of it. It's overwhelming.

But it's not scary, either.

"That's it, darling," he breathes. He grunts a little, heaves a breath. "That's it, Natasha, I'm right here with you. Right here, like with everything else." He kisses over her pulse and she squeezes her eyes, starting to see stars. "It's me, Natasha. You don't have to hold back."

And she doesn't. She arches her back, lets him kiss the breath from her lungs as she tumbles over the edge, murmuring his name over and over again.

A few more thrusts and he's right there with her, a deep, low groan making its way out of his throat as he holds her close, continuing to roll his hips through their orgasms.

She holds onto him even as her limbs go limp, eyelids fluttering closed, and listens to their breaths as they try to even out. Steve presses his face into her shoulder, pressing a kiss over her collarbone as she massages idly over his scalp. The room is cold, but her skin is still flushed from her orgasm, and from his body heat crowding her space, and she hums a little as she tucks herself closer to him. She's never felt safer, more comfortable, most _herself_ , than when she's in his arms, and she realized a while ago that the feelings are mutual.

"I love this part," she says, voice soft. He lifts his head up to meet her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"What part?" he asks.

" _You_ ," she breathes, and he leans in, kissing the corner of her mouth. It's not the same as saying what she really means, but he still understands. He always has.


End file.
